


Magic and Mayhem on Baker Street

by Cassinea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Detectives, F/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:25:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassinea/pseuds/Cassinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HAVING RETURNED TO LONDON in 1880 with my nerves shattered and left leg nearly crippled by a stray Jezail bullet, I found myself abruptly reacquainted with Mr Draco Malfoy while in urgent need of lodgings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic and Mayhem on Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xfsista](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xfsista/gifts).



> For this prompt: _I'm a sucker for Historical AU, so if you're so inclined, pick your favorite time period._
> 
> Preferred likes:  
>  _Post-Hogwarts/EWE. I like scenarios where they're forced into situations together - it could be work related or any other means. I like seeing them have to survive without magic, but not necessarily in the Muggle world. Basically, they're together, but not happy about it (at first ;). I love banter. I love angst, but not melodrama. A little humor is good, too. I love seeing their relationship grow where they start out not liking each other so much, but it evolves. I love sarcasm. I even enjoy a dark story as long as there is a happy (or at least hopeful) conclusion._  
>   
> 
> Thank you for a phenomenal prompt that inspired me to dip into the well of my favorite detective!

  
**The Adventure in Falling**  
Being a Reprint from the Reminisces of Hermione J. Granger, Healer,  
Late of the Army Medical Department

HAVING RETURNED TO LONDON in 1880 with my nerves shattered and left leg nearly crippled by a stray Jezail bullet, I found myself abruptly reacquainted with Mr Draco Malfoy while in urgent need of lodgings.

In my youth—though I am not as infirm as I initially appear—I watched with horror as Queen and country rushed headlong into a second brutal and needless Afghan conflict. Coming off on the heels, as it were, of the Second Wizarding War, this news impressed few beyond one lone editorial lamenting the savagery of Muggles in the _Daily Prophet_. What care had they to spare for the non-magical victims of warmongering? I had encountered like prejudice during my school years. When I undertook my Healer’s Certificate in 1878, I resolved to do what I could to minimize the losses of my fellow countrymen. The conflict for me was no less dear than the casualties we suffered at the Final Battle only one year prior.

In those days, female physicians numbered very few and on the battlefield none. Some might say: More idealistic fool, I, for leaping into the breach. I was forbidden to do magic but potions were not exactly magic, were they? As a physician’s assistant I dispensed my brews liberally. By day, I rushed from tent to tent in a constant fever of activity; by night, I dreamed of the lives I could not save for want of magic. I had left my wand in England knowing there were limits to what I could endure. As I watched limbs needlessly amputated and men screaming in pain, I cursed my prudence and gnashed my teeth in guilt. The war went from bad to worse the day I nearly lost my leg at the Battle of Maiwand when we of the —th Regiment of Foot were routed and harassed, surrounded and outnumbered.

I survived only by the chivalrous impulse of a soldier, who was forced to ignore wounded comrades to drag me, the lone woman in the field, to safety. The chaos of that retreat was such that I never found out his name. In my dreams, I fear he did not survive. At the base hospital in Peshawar I recovered slowly, my entire supply of potions abandoned in the scramble back to British lines. The bullet shattered my tibia messily, the metal splintering on impact and slithering unevenly into the muscle, resulting in a limp I am too proud to conceal. The medical board dismissed me and returned me home, another example of a woman too fragile for war.

Landing a month later in Portsmouth, I discovered the little family of mine remaining had relocated to Australia. This did not unduly surprise me as my parents often spoke of joining their relations there. More pressingly, this meant that I had no place of residence, and no particular locale that called to me. I found myself slowly gravitating back into Wizarding society, of which London was the unquestionable heart. My parents had sold their dentistry practice for a tidy sum, but all funds or support were beyond my reach on another continent. My army pension, a mere eleven shillings and sixpence per day, severely limited my options, as the Gringotts exchange rate was unusually punishing during wartime.

I had little choice but to seek employment. One would not suppose I would encounter any hardship since I’d gained much fame, and not a little notoriety, from my association with Mr Harry Potter. Had I been a man that would undoubtedly be true. Even in these more enlightened times, the prospects for an unattached female of slight means, with a reputation for speaking her mind and an unsteady constitution, are sparing. I was not eagerly snapped up by employers, indeed, if anything my former colleagues at St. Mungo’s delighted in their correct prediction that my ‘little war effort’ would prove disastrous. Everywhere I turned, I was urged most strenuously back onto the matrimonial path, as though a broken engagement were so easily repaired. It was not that I had any real objection to what everyone assured me was wedded bliss, more simply that I felt _unfinished_ , then and now.

Perhaps it was only thwarted ambition or wounded pride unwisely rearing its head, but I left that hallowed medical institution satisfied never to return. Fortunately, as I was departing an old schoolmate hailed me. “Hermione! How unexpected!” exclaimed Mrs Zabini née Brown.

Surprised, I greeted her warmly and asked after her health and her husband. We exchanged pleasantries until she inquired where I was staying. “A hotel in the Strand,” I confessed, following with a question to which I didn’t expect an answer. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could acquire lodgings at a reasonable rate, would you?”

“Extraordinary that you should mention it!” said Lavender, covering her mouth in an effusive affectation I suspected she would never outgrow. “Only this morning, a patient of mine complained that a family had hastily quit the city without any notice, which has left her with rooms to let in a hurry. She is the landlady, you see.”

“My fortunes appear to be turning at last,” I said, smiling.

After a few more entreaties from Lavender to visit her home and exhorting a promise from me to take tea with her friends, which we both knew perfectly well neither intended to keep, we parted on the best of terms. I was unfamiliar with the address, so it took several Apparitions before I found Baker Street. In those days, it was not the busy thoroughfare of today. No. 221B was an upstairs apartment, consisting of two bedrooms adjacent a generous sitting room into which sunlight poured from large windows. Two square meals daily would be provided by the landlady, Mrs Arabella Figg. Overall, the terms for the apartment were so modest, and my relief at finding a home so profound, that any hesitation on my part, I felt, would’ve resulted in its being instantly snatched up once its availability became more widely known.

It was this uncharacteristic haste which led me to agree to take on the lodgings without reading the minutiae of the contract. The next afternoon when I began relocating my meager belongings, the entirety of which shrunk fit snugly into a compartment of my Healer’s bag, and holding my half-Kneazle cat Crookshanks under the crook of one arm, I walked into a room that only superficially resembled the clean, airy and empty sitting room of yesterday. Suddenly, there were shelves of books cramming the walls and a handsome desk and chair crowding the fireplace. Absurdly a pianoforte even occupied a corner of the room. The rest resembled an unkempt Potions laboratory, one much-scuffed cauldron already boiling in the meager space behind the door.

I shut my eyes tightly to combat the sense of vertigo assaulting my senses. Surely, I had not entered the wrong house? At the tail-end of that thought, the door of the bedroom I had planned to furnish into my study burst open. A tall, thin man with shocks of bone-white hair strode out. His brows rose at the sight of me.

Recognition, unexpected and visceral, was immediate. “What,” I sputtered, “are you doing here, Malfoy?”

“I should think it obvious, Granger,” he replied, his head tilted like a hawk. “By the manner in which you are clutching that animal and medical bag, as though it contained all your worldly possessions, you apparently believe you are moving into _my_ flat.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I retorted. “I signed the lease yesterday. The only trespasser here is you!”

Malfoy sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Does the hot Afghan sun evaporate everyone’s manners or just those of presumptuous, crusading Englishwomen?”

I eyed his narrow face with suspicion. “How on earth did you know that?”

“How else? By using my eyes. You have a robust tan and a pronounced limp.” His sharp grey eyes swept my form. “When you entered the room, you favored your left leg with the caution of a new injury. The medical bag marks you for a Healer. Now, where on _earth_ , as you so quaintly put it, would a Muggle-born Healer clinging resolutely to her roots go where medical skills are most needed, a healthy tan can be obtained and injury is likely? Obviously, the place where a war is on.”

“Well, when you put it like that, it’s simple,” I muttered.

He exhaled impatiently, pressing two fingers to his temple. “None of which resolves our present difficulty. As I’ve already unpacked and settled, you may as well preserve whatever dignity remains to you and accept that to the early bird go the spoils.”

“If I’d been aware that unpacking was synonymous with flinging everything you own on the first surface you see, I’d have arrived hours ago!”

“As they are _my_ surfaces, they need hardly be your concern.”

We might have continued on in that vein for quite some time, relations between us strained since our school days and hardly improved by the war, but Mrs Figg interrupted us with the tea service. “Oh! I see you’ve met.”

Under the weight of both our glares, her effervescent attitude visibly wilted. I indicated Malfoy so there could be no confusion. “What is the meaning of this?”

Rallying, she answered brightly, “I had hoped that you would not mind sharing the sitting room, as you are renting only the one bedroom.”

At my appalled silence, Malfoy chuckled then nodded at our landlady appreciatively. “I mistakenly attributed the low rent to Mrs Figg’s urgent need of new tenants. It seems, Granger, that we have allowed our greed to misguide us.”

I scowled. “Which only one of us would be so justified in doing. What need have you for affordable lodgings anyway?”

“The need any bachelor has when he’s none too plump in the pocket,” he said with a shrug, affecting an air of nonchalance which didn’t fool me.

I was intimately acquainted with his spendthrift habits. At school, regaling his cronies with the latest luxuries was an all too common spectacle. In any case, it was no concern of mine if Malfoy had gambled away his allowance or lost it through some other vice. The man standing before me might be taller and more limbered than I remembered, but if there was any lesson adulthood had entrenched in me, it was that the fundamentals of a person do not alter. People become echoes of themselves over time—sometimes magnified, often diminished, but always comprising the same substance at their core.

The Honorable Draco Malfoy, heir to Lord Malfoy, Baron Greystoke, had been a prejudiced bully in his callow youth. Not for the first time, I recalled with painstaking clarity the humiliation he had heaped upon me for my Muggle origins. He’d not only allowed me to be tortured in his home by his lunatic aunt, but had, in fact, chosen the wrong side of the war from the very beginning. It dawned on me with the sullen inevitability of things-that-just-happen that we had inadvertently agreed to share a flat. We were _flatmates_. My fortunes had not turned; it had flown the coop altogether.

—————

For several days, neither of us spoke nor made any acknowledgment of not being the sole occupant of No. 221B, a pretense enabled by our incompatible schedules. Malfoy frequently arose at dawn and often missed supper, returning around midnight. I usually dined alone and kept more congenial hours. With the exception of occasional Potions mishaps that resulted in permeating odors and his odd habit of banging on the pianoforte at odd hours, we ignored each other very credibly. By day I searched for employment; by night, I tossed restlessly and cried out in my sleep. The latter I only discovered when we reached our first weekend as housemates, and I awoke earlier than usual.

Clad in an expensive purple dressing gown that briefly gave me pause, I watched Malfoy lounge in his armchair and idly butter his toast without even glancing up. A copy of the _Prophet_ was spread open over my side of the table. “I took the liberty of casting some Silencing Charms over your room,” he said. “You’ve been distressing Mrs Figg.”

Stiffly, I walked over to the table and flipped the newspaper back over to his side, uncovering my breakfast plate. Crookshanks slunk sleepily behind me and placed a paw on my leg, begging for scraps. “Thank you,” I said with the least amount of gratitude I could muster. Unfortunately, as I was generally a pleasant person who treated others well, this came out more cheerfully than I’d intended.

The corners of his mouth lifting as though he’d heard my ungrateful thoughts, Malfoy met my eyes for the first time in a week. “I’m expecting a client shortly. I’ll understand if you wish to step out.”

At least, those were the words he used. His meaning was that I should make myself scarce on account of his whims. I picked up my fork and speared a sausage slowly on my plate. I handed half to my cat and chewed the rest obliviously. “A client?”

Gathering up his paper in annoyance, he resumed reading and cut me from his view altogether. “Yes, it’s what those of us employed call a paying customer.”

“You have a job, Malfoy?” I said, raising a brow. “I’m surprised you even know what that is.”

“Drivel,” he muttered and discarded the paper in a heap on the floor. He leveled his grey eyes on my face, considering. Whatever he saw in my skeptical countenance prompted him to continue. “Not just any job. I am the world’s first consulting detective.”

“World’s first _what_?”

“Consulting detective,” he repeated. “Did you receive a head injury alongside that leg wound?”

I tried not to ask but my curiosity, long an unrepentant sin of mine, won out. “And a consulting detective does what exactly?”

“As with any other tradesman, a detective has a trade—detection. When the official apparatus is either useless or undesirable, they come to me. They lay out all the evidence, I point them in the right direction and then pocket my fee.”

Malfoy’s pedantic air disturbed me; he had clearly given his speech numerous times, which lent some credence to his apparent belief that an amateur sleuth was somehow superior to Magical Law Enforcement. “Which entails what? Swindling vulnerable people into believing that you can better assist them than the Ministry?”

“Given the decrepit state of that place, not to mention the general incompetence of the MLE, it’s hardly that far-fetched now, is it, Granger?”

“Several of my friends are in the MLE,” I said frostily.

Malfoy smiled crookedly. “My point precisely. The department is sadly misnamed these days, with the stranglehold the Aurors have over any actual law enforcing. Not every petty thief is the next Dark Lord in disguise.”

I threw down my fork in disgust, ignoring the mewl Crookshanks made in protest. “This from a former Death Eater who can’t even say his name properly! What was I thinking? Naturally, your grand sideline is helping your cronies escape justice. Consulting detective? Try consulting criminal!”

“If the Ministry weren’t blinded by its prejudice—”

“ _Prejudice_? The Ministry should bloody well be prejudiced against people who supported a genocidal tyrant!”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed into icy flints. “Which excuses the turnabout of targeting the families who survived, yes, _survived_ the Dark Lord’s reign in what way?”

“You cannot be comparing justified scrutiny of known Death Eater supporters,” I said incredulously, “to persecution of Muggles and Muggle-borns during the war!”

“No, what I cannot be and am not is willfully blind. The only difference between the two is in the severity of the persecution and the selection of victims. The principle remains the same. So do the methods: Isolate a segment of the population then treat them as second-class citizens regardless of their present conduct.”

“Apparently, it’s a steep fall from grace for people reared with a silver spoon in their mouths since this is news to you,” I replied, “but being held accountable for your prior conduct is how the rest of the world operates! You’re not being singled out for mistreatment, Malfoy. For the first time since possibly the beginning of time, blood and wealth and privilege aren’t impenetrable shields against the law. That is how it should be!”

“On the contrary, Granger,” said Malfoy, making a mocking gesture. “Perhaps if you were in charge at the Ministry, God forbid, your scruples would ensure the pendulum of justice did not swing in a retaliatory fashion, but as it stands, the facts contradict you. The mere existence of clients who would rather seek my assistance, even in these humble abodes, speaks volumes.”

“Yes, and what I hear is that the Ministry no longer patronizes your social circle, so they’ve decided that as long as they’re out of favor, the system no longer appeals. That’s the real reason they come to you, and you know it!”

He arched a pale brow. “And what—I make their problems vanish with the mystical powers I undoubtedly possess? The only people less favored than I by the Ministry are incarcerated.”

“That’s even worse. You give advice you’ve no business giving, which I reiterate, makes you a swindler!”

“Would it do you a physical injury,” he snapped, “not to be so perpetually presumptuous, Granger? If you’re so skeptical of my methods then come see them in action for yourself. Until then, do my ringing ears a favor and reserve judgment!”

Satisfied with this last word on the matter, Malfoy whirled around and returned to his room to dress. Even though I hadn’t acquiesced to his terms, I found myself caught between righteous indignation and curiosity’s sway. My time in London thus far had been far from agreeable. I found myself sinking daily deeper into ennui from inactivity while the contents of my pocketbook continued to dwindle at an alarming pace. If Malfoy was somehow running a scam in these quarters, I reassured myself, then it was my duty as a law-abiding citizen to report him and equally importantly, evict him from the premises.

While I attended to my toilette, I heard Mrs Figg show someone up the stairs. I finished hastily and stepped into the sitting room before Malfoy could warn his client. From the doorway, I saw the frame of a woman in formal mourning wear and the sliver of an impeccable coiffure beneath a voluminous summer bonnet. She was nervously stroking hands clad in white silk gloves. My entrance startled her, and she turned to place limpid blue eyes on my face.

“Pansy Parkinson?” I said, amused. “ _This_ is your client?”

“What is she doing here?” demanded Miss Parkinson simultaneously.

“I occasionally consult others with expert insight, Pansy,” said Malfoy, his tone improperly familiar. “As a Healer, she may be helpful to us. As a self-righteous meddler, we can rely on her to keep a confidence, can’t we, Granger?”

“You know very well my word is beyond reproach!”

Dismissing the matter, Malfoy softened his voice as he recaptured Miss Parkinson’s attention. “Your letter was splotched with tears and highly incoherent, even for you. Let’s hear what’s happened.”

I took a seat opposite him as the story came out in jerks and fits, interrupted by frequent dabs by a crumpled and much-abused handkerchief. “Gregory, that is, Mr Goyle, and I are engaged to be married,” she stated, mostly for my benefit. “He came to visit yesterday—”

“One moment,” interrupted Malfoy. “When was this?”

“Yesterday afternoon. After tea-time, I daresay. He must’ve asked for Papa at the door because no one called for me. I was in the garden gathering a bouquet for the supper table w-when I heard the most awful crash above us!”

“Us?” I asked.

“The head gardener and I,” she continued impatiently, “were by the house so we heard it first. I looked up and saw two figures on the balcony overhead. The sun was in my eyes so I didn’t know at first who was whom, but then the railing collapsed and t-they fell!”

“Goyle and your father?” clarified Malfoy.

“Yes, yes, who else? We rushed over but it was too late. Papa landed on a bench, which made a loud crack because it was marble, you know. Poor Gregory was in the flowerbed,” she said, sniffling.

“Oh, do dispense with the vapors, Pansy,” he said. “You were no fonder of your father than I am of mine.”

Twin splotches of red flooded Miss Parkinson’s pale cheeks. She clutched the arms of her chair ferociously. “And whose fault is that?” she cried. “There was no cause for him to remarry a mere year, to the _day_ , Draco, after my mother passed. And to that awful woman!”

“You only find her awful because now she’ll hold your purse strings,” said Malfoy callously.

“And why should she?” countered Miss Parkinson. “It’s not as though she’s gifted my father with a son. It was most unjust of him to alter his will to leave it all to her!”

“Surely not everything?” I said, surprised.

She pinned eyes bright with anger on my face. “Until I am married, my portion is entirely in her keeping. It’s intolerable!”

“And so the pending nuptials? How mercenary of you,” said Malfoy, with a sly smile.

“You men never have the least understanding,” she said, redirecting her ire. “It costs you nothing to remain a bachelor, but women can never be free without a husband, and even then it is a gamble of trading one jailer for another!”

He sighed, steepling his fingers above the armrests. “Enough, Pansy. I’ll concede your life is the personification of suffering. You wrote that Goyle is at St. Mungo’s, yes?”

“Yes, t-they say he is in a catatonic state. There was nothing they could do for Papa.”

Malfoy frowned. “The news about Goyle and your father is distressing, of course, but I fail to see how my services may benefit you. His past will speak against him, unfortunately, but it is a well-known fact that Goyle rarely controlled his temper. A straightforward case for the MLE, I should think.”

I was frankly surprised to hear him admit it. A part of me expected him to take advantage of Miss Parkinson’s grief to gain access to her purse, but perhaps he dared not do so in my presence.

Miss Parkinson shook her head earnestly. “But there was no quarrel between them! It’s simply unaccountable that a week before our marriage they should come to blows like this. It was most unlike Papa! As for Gregory, we were so happy only the day before. He must’ve been under a compulsion. He must have! That dreadful Harry Potter won’t even consider it. He still bears a grudge because of that time I said we should give him t-to the Dark Lord, but I didn’t mean it, truly! I was so frightened!”

“They assigned the case to _Harry_?” I asked, puzzled. “But he’s an Auror. This is a homicide. There’s no Dark wizard involvement unless you count Mr Goyle on a technicality, I suppose.”

Malfoy glanced at me with a shrewd expression. “He has the Dark Mark, Granger, ergo all his activities are Dark wizard ones until proved otherwise in today’s Ministry parlance.”

“He is your friend, Draco,” appealed Miss Parkinson. “ _I_ am your friend. You cannot abandon us in our hour of need.”

“I had no intention of that. I’ll do all I can for you both, but I fear it will be very little.”

“Anything is better than watching the Ministry hover by his bedside,” she said accusingly, “prepared to toss him into Azkaban the moment he regains consciousness.”

“Oh, nonsense,” I said, pushed beyond endurance. “Please spare me the Cheltenham tragedy. Obviously, there will be a _trial_ first.”

“And you suppose there will be many supporters for a former Death Eater in the Wizengamot, do you?” Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “Granger, do stop playing the fool. It’s an unfortunate look on you.”

I stifled the urge to fling my hands in exasperation. “But he’s guilty! Even you admit that!”

“Do I?” he murmured, offering a hand to Miss Parkinson. They stood together and looked down on me. “Well, if you’re so certain that's the case, we have nothing left to say to one another, do we?”

“Is that all?” I challenged. “The entirety of your much-vaunted detective routine?”

“It’s incumbent upon me to examine the crime scene, but as you’ve already made up your mind on the matter, you’d only be in the way, no?”

“No,” I said, unaccountably cross. “I can’t trust that you won’t muck this up for Harry. _Someone_ has to keep you honest.”

Upon those words, the three of us departed Baker Street in Miss Parkinson’s Thestral-drawn carriage. As Malfoy helped her inside, she glanced at the winged horses and shivered as if seeing them for the first time. We began and concluded the journey in silence, only breaking it after we drew up beside the door of the Parkinsons’ illustrious Mayfair estate. We disembarked and followed Miss Parkinson through a gate she tapped open with her wand. The garden was expansive in the characteristic manner of magical spaces, which was walled in along the sides. She pointed at the balcony with a section of missing brass railing, shaking so pitifully even I was moved enough to suggest that perhaps she ought to have a lie-down. Glancing at Malfoy, who had already abandoned us to scrutinize the flowerbed, she fled into the house.

“Fools and cretins,” muttered Malfoy, pacing back and forth along the space below the balcony. “Look,” he commanded as I approached, “at what those imbeciles have done.”

I looked and could see nothing amiss. “Someone has re-planted the flowerbed and repaired the bench,” he continued, “thereby destroying all the evidence! Ah, and here is the culprit.”

Turning, I spotted a stooped, elderly gentlemen carrying gardening implements walking towards us. As he came nearer, he must have seen Malfoy’s fulminating expression because he slowed, his posture becoming a degree more obsequious. “May I be of assistance?” he asked in a cringing voice. “The young miss told us all to help you however we can.”

“You can begin by explaining,” he said imperiously, “why you have systematically eradicated all the physical evidence—”

“Enough, Malfoy!” I said sharply. “There’s no need to sling about accusations when you don’t know the first thing about this man.”

“Don’t I? You mean aside from the fact that he is a Squib, has a habit of imbibing spirits too freely, has recently quarreled with his wife and this morning, scattered the evidence of a potential murder—you’re right, Granger, I know nothing else about him.”

The gardener gave a queer start at that summation, peering at Malfoy in alarm. “How did you know that, sir? I’ve never seen you above a minute in my life.”

“It’s the most elementary deduction,” he dismissed, and yet there was an edge of pride in his voice. “You’re employed in a magical household yet rely on Muggle tools, which is no mere affectation as I see you bear no wand. It’s barely half past eight in the morn, but I smell alcohol on your breath. The man who requires such fortifications at this hour is no social drinker.”

“But my wife, sir?”

“Your clothes are freshly laundered and fit well. However, there is a hole in your collar, a recent development, I believe, as the threads are still unraveling. Either there is a woman who does for you and unexpectedly quit your employ or as is more likely given your age, you have a wife who has ceased to labor on your behalf, probably due to your drinking.”

“Well, when you explain it like that,” said the man, relieved.

“Yes, quite,” said Malfoy, unable to conceal his irritation. “Perhaps you’ll identify yourself and explain why you’ve decimated the crime scene?”

“Oh, I’m Thaddeus Williams, go by Thad since I was a boy. As for the flowerbed, it was on account of the mistress’s instructions. The bench she repaired herself.”

“Mr Williams, to whom are you referring?” I asked. “Miss Parkinson or her stepmother?”

“The missus, o’ course,” stated Thad. “Came down after they took the master away, and what with everyone kicking up a hullabaloo, she said we must act as we mean to go on and ordered the servants to put things to right.”

Malfoy pointed at the balcony. “What about earlier? Did you see the fall yourself?”

“Oh yes, sir. The young miss was picking flowers for an arrangement and I was helping her choose the proper ‘uns when we hears this big noise a-sudden. We looked and there was the two fellows on the balcony, Mr Goyle and the master, that is. Then the railing broke apart and the master, he fell on this here bench. It weren’t more than a few seconds when we rushed over, the young miss and I, being only a few steps away when the other gentleman came crashing down into that flowerbed.”

Something in his account irked me, straightforward though it was, but before I could ruminate on the matter, Malfoy issued a clipped nod, turned on his heel and headed towards the house. I thanked Mr Williams for his time and followed after him.

“There’s nothing for it but to examine the balcony and the room itself,” he said, by way of explanation.

We entered the house, which despite its brisk cleanliness radiated a funereal atmosphere. The few maidservants we passed on our way upstairs scurried out of sight at our approach, only one peeping out at us from behind a doorway. The room in question was furnished to the nines in every masculine particular, from furs on the floor to boxes of cigars on the desk, a study to give any wizard joy. When he saw that the room had also been attended to, Malfoy uttered an oath and walked the length of the carpet with his wand, casting an unobtrusive spell here and there.

He paused only twice, the first by a decanter of brandy that was filled halfway up to the glass stopper, and the second time, at a luxurious leather armchair positioned adjacent to the balcony window, the seat of which faced me in the direction of the door. No doubt it was a favored reading spot, what with the sun shining over the headrest at a comfortable angle. Abruptly, he changed tack and approached the balcony. He examined the curtains, the window hinges and finally satisfied, opened the doors and stepped outside. From a few feet behind him, I could see that the edges of the brass railing appeared torn loose by a strong impact which had ripped out several nails fastening it to the plaster.

I meant to question him further on his perambulations except a voice behind us pronounced, “These are my friends, Mr Malfoy and Miss Granger. They’ve come to support us during this dreadful time, Stepmama.”

We turned to introduce ourselves to Mrs Celeste Parkinson, a woman who looked hardly older than her stepdaughter. Her mourning dress was cut in a more severe style than the more flamboyant Miss Parkinson’s, the only concession to her position as the matron of the house that I could detect. Certainly there was a distinct absence of warmth between the two ladies.

“We are naturally most grateful for your friendship,” said Mrs Parkinson gravely. “But as this is a very difficult time, I’m afraid that it isn’t proper to receive visitors. I’m persuaded a gentleman like yourself can forgive the impetuous actions of my stepdaughter.”

Miss Parkinson flushed unbecomingly. “I should think I could invite whomever I wish! Especially to clear poor Gregory’s name!”

“Clear his name?” echoed Mrs Parkinson in tones of surprise. “My dear child, that is surely a matter for the Ministry.”

“They won’t even consider any other explanation!” cried her stepdaughter. “They none of them can see beyond that stupid letter.”

Frowning, Malfoy made an arresting motion that quickly drew Miss Parkinson’s attention. “And what letter would that be, Pansy?”

She cast a swift glance at him then bit her lip. “Well, I know your methods. A-And I didn’t want to prejudice you, the way the Ministry has been.”

“Doing it too brown, my dear. You know very well I can’t possibly exercise my methods without all the salient facts,” he said, with a look dark with warning.

“I don’t believe it. I won’t!” she declared. “There was a letter from Papa in Gregory’s jacket but I know he wouldn’t write such a thing. I-It said that he could no longer countenance the match in light of disturbing new information, and that the engagement was henceforth at an end!”

“I daresay the news came as a terrible shock to him as well, my dear,” said Mrs Parkinson gently. “He had a most alarming complexion when he arrived yesterday.”

Malfoy turned to address the chatelaine of the manor. “You received Goyle, madam?”

“Yes, though he was acting most unlike himself. I almost hesitated to show him to the study, but he assured me that his visit was on behalf of a most urgent errand.”

“So then you saw what happened?” I asked.

“Oh no, Pansy’s father was accustomed to receiving visitors alone. I thought nothing of it until I heard angry shouts. I rushed over and knocked on the door. It’s his heart, you know, with it not being what it was, I feared the worst. I opened the door and that’s,” she hesitated, glancing briefly at the balcony, “when I saw Mr Goyle, I’m sorry to say. . .that I found him with his hands around my husband's throat. They stumbled into the railing and went over together.”

“That’s a lie!” said Miss Parkinson, her lip quivering. “Gregory would never—”

“One moment,” interrupted Malfoy. “Did you know about this letter from your husband?”

“No.” She shook her head. “He—well, he was always a very private man.”

“He never mentioned any reason to end the engagement?” he persisted.

Except for a brief tightening of her fingers, Mrs Parkinson, though pale, remained composed. “No, never.”

“Madam, I don’t wish to intrude on your kindness beyond what’s strictly necessary,” said Malfoy. “If you could see your way to ringing for the maid who straightened this room after the. . .incident, we won’t trespass a moment longer.”

“Whatever for?” asked the widow, astonished.

“Only doing my due diligence, madam,” he said, with an ingratiating smile. “I promised Pansy my utmost assistance. A matter of a gentleman’s honor, you understand.”

“Yes, I suppose,” she replied faintly. Turning, she walked over to the bell-pull and tugged on the rope. A minute later, the same servant who had boldly spied on us earlier entered the room, her eyes cast demurely towards the carpet.

“Gladys,” implored Miss Parkinson. “Tell them everything. Leave out nothing, I beseech you.”

“Yes, miss, as you’d like,” said the maidservant.

“I have a few questions for you,” stated Malfoy. “Which direction does this armchair usually face?”

Following the point of his finger to the chair by the window, she answered readily, “The way it is now, sir. Towards the door. Master likes—liked to read sitting there.”

He nodded, as though he’d expected it. “Is the care of this room your usual responsibility?”

“Oh yes,” said Gladys. “I clean up after the master and give it a good dusting every other day.”

“And the replenishment of spirits, that’s also in the normal course of your duties?”

“Yes, sir.”

Malfoy indicated the clean glasses surrounding the container. “Is this brandy decanter normally half empty?”

Gladys’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no, sir! I must’ve forgot to refill it last night. I replaced the glasses, which is what I always do, but with everyone in an uproar, it slipped my mind. I’m so sorry, I am—I’ll just do that right now, shall I?”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Mrs Parkinson sharply. “It’s not at all important now.”

Bowing over her hand, he said, “I quite agree, madam. Well, we won’t intrude on your time any longer.” Turning towards Miss Parkinson, he leaned scandalously close to whisper something in her ear. “Pansy, we shall speak later. We’ll take our leave, then. Goodbye.”

As we exited the somber house, leaving behind two white-faced ladies and a curious maid, and having learned very little, if any, information to exonerate Mr Goyle, I was surprised to find Malfoy smiling. What he found there to be cheerful about I didn’t know; my own thoughts were occupied by something that was amiss in what the gardener had told us. On the carriage ride back to Baker Street, Malfoy broke my reverie as we arrived at our destination.

“Well, then, what are your thoughts on the case, Granger?”

I reserved comment until we’d trodden up the steps and were ensconced comfortably once more in our sitting room. I didn’t wish to admit it, but his tenacity had impressed me favorably, if not his manners, which were no less execrable than I’d remembered. “It would appear that the late Mr Parkinson discovered something he didn’t like about his daughter’s fiancé, and when Goyle was tasked with the fact, he lost his temper. They came to blows, and then. . .a horrible accident.”

Malfoy lounged in his armchair and reached down into the toe of one of his slippers, retrieving a cigarette case. He lit one up as he said, “It would _appear_ , you're very careful to say. You have doubts then, Granger?”

“Well, I’m not,” I replied, frowning, “as certain of the facts as I’d like. It seems that’s what must have happened and yet. . . .”

“And yet it’s wholly unsatisfactory,” he pronounced, after taking a long drag.

I grimaced at the smoke he blew discourteously in my direction and turned towards the window. It had grown darker outside, and stray raindrops collided against the panes. Suddenly, I came to my feet. “It’s all wrong. And I know why!”

Malfoy watched me with hooded amusement as I collected one of his Potions texts at random in one hand and a teaspoon with the other. I lifted both to an equal height above my elbows. “Even though this book is much heavier than the spoon, if I drop them,” which I then did, “they will land on the floor at the same time. It’s one of those quirks of gravity that two objects will travel the same distance in the same time regardless of their weight. You see?”

His only response was to tap his cigarette against a tea saucer he treated like an ashtray, but I had warmed to my subject now and required only a modicum of his attention. “Both Miss Parkinson and Mr Williams told us that they saw Mr Parkinson fall first. They had enough time to overcome their shock and run over before Goyle came down. But that can’t be true! Not if it’s the case that they went over the railing together, as Mrs Parkinson said she saw.”

“You’re quite right, Granger,” replied Malfoy, slouching languidly, his eyes hooded. “The _stepmama’s_ account doesn’t accord with the facts on several points.”

“So she lied? But why?”

“To get her hands on Pansy’s inheritance, of course.”

“By killing her husband?” I asked, incredulous.

Tossing his unfinished cigarette in the fireplace, he stood and began to pace as he spoke. “We have the classic nest of adders: a petulant stepdaughter, a youthful stepmother, an aging husband. Opening night, a startling new development! Pater amends the will upon their marriage granting the new wife full control over the family fortune. Ah, but so long as the daughter remains unmarried, naturally.

"Act one, the curtains part and entering from stage left, the suitor who wishes to make the heiress into his bride! Once she takes his name, her portion of the fortune goes to the husband as a dowry. From stage right, we see the long-suffering stepmother still in the first blush of her youth, who has only a small window of opportunity to get her heart’s desire. But consider! If only the suitor perishes while doing away with the gouty husband, then everything will come to her!”

“It’s a beautiful theory, but how did she do it?”

“By the oldest trick in the book,” said Malfoy, with a hint of contempt. “She forges a letter in her husband’s handwriting and sends it to the suitor with a bad temper. Predictably, he charges up her steps like an angry bull. She arranges herself to intercept him and lead him into the study. Probably, she feeds him a story about how her husband will be down in a minute. Meanwhile, why don’t you have a drink?”

“The brandy? She. . .poisoned it?”

“Almost certainly so,” he agreed. “No doubt, earlier in the day, she had her husband partake in some. Or perhaps she used magic on both. It makes no matter either way since it would be beyond the pale for Mr Parkinson to offer a drink to someone he believed had dishonored his daughter. You remember how I asked particularly about the direction the armchair faced? With its high headrest, if it was turned towards the window, as the incongruous grooves in the carpet indicated, someone could very well be seated and yet remain unseen by the other occupants in the room.”

“She would’ve had to loosen the railing beforehand,” I conjectured.

“Very likely. Thus staged, it would be mere child’s play to levitate the husband so he bumps against the railing on the way down, followed by that trusting oaf Goyle. It would explain the discrepancy in time between their falls. Only the conniving widow-to-be miscalculated her trajectories, and the fortuitously placed flowerbed cushions Goyle’s fall.”

“It fits,” I said slowly. “Yes, it does—all the pieces do fit. In which case, we can’t just sit here and do nothing. We have to tell Harry!”

Malfoy shrugged before reaching for another cigarette. “I warned Pansy to keep dear stepmama away from the study. As their prime suspect is presently laid up in hospital, the MLE can wait for luncheon, I think. Do ring for it, won’t you, Granger?”

As I rang for Mrs Figg, I found myself watching Malfoy from the corner of my eye. His grey eyes drooped as he smoked, and I marveled at discovering this heretofore unknown side to the callous, spoiled aristocrat. If all his clients presented such stimulating puzzles, I knew my ennui would soon be a relic of the past. I did not anticipate that our cohabitation would be lengthy, but for the present, until such time as I found employment and established my own residence, I knew that at least there would be further adventures in the wind.

  
_The game is afoot_!


End file.
